


In His Arms, Home

by salishseaselkie



Series: Thistle Thine, Rose Mine [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending, Reunions, The Cure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5272349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salishseaselkie/pseuds/salishseaselkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhona finally returns from the West.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In His Arms, Home

Rhona removed her helm and freed her hair into the breeze. She had ridden hard and long that morning, and the sweat of the summer day had accumulated on her nape and her ears in small, sticky puddles. Respite, however short, was a relief. She looked out on Denerim, a few miles to the southeast, on a hill with a clear view of the city. It hummed below her, thrummed and buzzed like a hive, and the life of it was sweeping her away, despite her distance. She could see the tower of Fort Drakon – the very same tower where she became the Hero of Ferelden, where she performed the impossible. She was about to do it all again. In her saddle bags was the cure, packed away and preserved for a moment that had yet to pass.

She looked further east and a little to the north, and there, shining like a jewel, was the palace. Alistair was home; she knew this from the few spies Leliana had put on her to watch her. She felt his presence there – he’d grown stronger since she’d been gone, or she’d become more sensitive to the taint as it progressed in her body. All the more reason to be rid of it.

Her helm rested between her arm and her rib cage. It was the helm of the Warden-Commander, silverite with wings in the side tipped in gold filigree, and the nose piece was an ornate eagle’s beak. She knew what she was giving up. But she had protected the world for what felt like an age, and she needed, once and for all, to just sit and breathe.

She put on the helm, taking up her mantle one last time, and she dug her heel into the barrel of her old warhorse, the same beast which had borne her those many miles. One last run, old boy. They took off down the hill, through the field of grass and embrium, and Rhona’s heart pounded as the realization of how close she was gripped her. She had not seen these gates, iron and firm and unyielding, in two years; the walls, marble and grim and stubborn; the surrounding farms, lazy and brown and stern.

The city guards crossed their pikes before her, barring her entrance. “State your name and business in Denerim!” one ordered.

She took her right glove in her teeth and flashed her signet ring. “I am Rhona Theirin, Warden-Commander and Queen of Ferelden.” She withdrew her hand swiftly and leaned over, a snarling dare in her voice. “Now ask me what my business is here.” The guard fumbled with his pike as his grip slackened.

“Oh! Uh…of course, Highness.” He and his comrade stepped aside quick as cats, and she thumped her legs against her steed again.

“Yah!” She took down the cobbled streets of her city. The aromas that swept her away, the sounds, the sights…Maker, it was far better than any homecoming ball they would likely throw for her.

She came through the market, and people everywhere made way for the Commander of the Grey. Some called out, “It’s the Hero! She’s back!” Others cried, “The Queen! Someone, tell the Arl!” She passed Teagan’s estate and glanced to the guards who ran inside to tell him of her return. She smiled to herself as she passed the tavern and came to the bridge past the Alienage. They would certainly know of her arrival by the time she arrived at the palace.

Then she came to it, and the flags hanging from the windows decreed that the king was indeed in residence. She raced into the compound, halting only when she made it to the stables, and when she brought her horse to a sliding stop, she jumped down, grabbing her saddlebag and taking off for the throne room without a word to anyone. A stable hand caught sight of her and grabbed her horse, eyes wide and unbelieving.

Elsewhere in the palace, Teagan received a raven from his estate. The message had been quickly scrawled and there were blots and smears all over it, but the message on the parchment was very clear.

The Queen had returned.

He scrambled from the study, running for the King’s study. “Alistair!” he called down the hall. “Alistair!” When he got to the study, Alistair stood in a white shirt and dark blue linen breeches, conferring with the envoys from the Chantry and the Inquisition and the newly reformed Circle of Magi. Teagan rushed up to his side and whispered, “She’s back,” in his ear. Alistair’s light brown eyes widened and he looked at Teagan to verify that he’d heard exactly what he thought he had.

When he found the affirmation in Teagan’s earnest eyes, he bolted, no care for the envoys, for pomp and circumstance.

She was home.

Rhona came into the throne room, and while a few nobles were present and did gasp at the sight of a queen long presumed dead, she didn’t pay much mind to them. She went to the door next to the throne and threw open the doors to the residence, hoping to find Alistair in their rooms.

Meanwhile, Alistair had run to the stables through one of the side doors. He saw her horse and stuffed his hands in his hair, furiously trying to locate his wife. He caught sight of the stable hand and grabbed his arm roughly. “Where is she?!” he demanded in an uncharacteristic show of aggression.

The man pointed towards the door which she had gone through. Alistair groaned. The palace, full of hiding places and escapes for him when he wanted nothing more than to take a breath from his duties, was for once just too fucking big. He dashed for the doors.

Rhona came to their bedchamber, to find it empty. The balcony doors were closed and curtained – that simply wouldn’t do. She deposited the saddle bag on the table by the window and opened the curtains and doors, letting in the afternoon air. She set her helm on the trunk at the end of their bed, unclasped her increasingly heavy breastplate, and put it down with it. She then heard a crash outside the door to the hall.

Alistair fell as he tried to turn the sharp corner to the bedchamber – the nobles had pointed him to the residency, and there he had run like a mad man. He crashed into the wall, knocking into a suit of armor that fell to pieces on impact, falling on him.

“Ow!” He was mad now. He wanted to see his wife, but it seemed like all of Denerim and then some was in his way.

A flash of red-brown hair swished out of the door to their room as he shoved a cuirasse off his abdomen, and then wide green eyes met with his, and the world fell away as he saw the most beautiful, radiant sight he’d ever seen in his life.

“Rhona.” Servants had gathered in the hall to watch, but he did not care. She walked towards him as he stood, and even bruised and beaten from idle armor, he was drawn toward her like ‘spawn to the Old Gods. Her pace quickened as she drew near, and suddenly, her arms were around him, her lips on his hairline, her body crushed against his, and he was falling again.

“Oomph!” She muttered an apology in between kisses, so numerous and ardent and holy that he had only to return them to show his forgiveness.

His arms were around her, his aching, empty arms that had not felt her presence for too long, latching around her tightly – his promise to never let her go. His lips were on hers, his sour, unsmiling lips that had no reason to rejoice if she was not there, and they were breaking into a grin against her mouth and cheeks and neck – his promise that she would never have need to go. His eyes were wet, his dry, tired eyes that had not shed a tear since the day she’d left, and the tears sang of all his lonely nights, of all the trials he undergone without her support – and that was his promise that if she ever did leave again, so help him Maker, he would die of heartbreak.

The servants murmured to each other and slowly disappeared as their monarchs reacquainted themselves with each other.

Alistair murmured into her hair, “Dearest, as much as I have missed you, we should probably move this somewhere…mm…more comfortable.” She grabbed his hand and stood, mirth glittering in her eyes. Maker, he missed those eyes…

She pulled him urgently along, ready for anything, ready to be his again, forever this time, forever his and forever safe in his arms. He shut the door to their bedroom and closed on her, cupping her face, kissing her as she yanked off her vambraces, her pauldrons, her boots, her chainmail, and then he took over, slipping his hands over her skin as he removed her clothes, piece by piece.

Then he stopped. She was here. That meant…

“You found it.” She nodded.

“Yes, my love,” she murmured as she touched his face reverently. “I found it. But we can worry about it later. I just found out that I get to be with you much longer than I’d anticipated, and I’d like to relish the moment, if it’s all the same to you…” Her loving eyes took a wicked gleam in them. Alistair shook his head, knowing he would never get past this – this feeling, this incapability of resisting her, this tortuous desire that had plagued his body and soul since giving in to her love.

“All right, dearest.” He took one of her hands and kissed her fingers, one by one in a delicious, slow rhythm. “Now…where to begin, I wonder? Ah!” He grinned at her and kissed her breast. “I remember writing to you about these…we’ll start here.” And as he kissed her, as he wrung forgotten pleasures from her body, his heart was spilling forth, overflowing in love once again slaked with hers.

She was home, and that was all Alistair could have wanted.


End file.
